


Encounter In Haven

by Beregond5



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 01:08:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8350393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beregond5/pseuds/Beregond5
Summary: Mahariel and his companions have found the Urn of Sacred Ashes. On their way down the mountain, however, the dalish gets a nasty surprise.





	1. Tamlen

Mahariel supposed they had been fortunate. Though meant to be masters of stealth, shrieks were creatures that breathed quite loudly, making a characteristic hissing sound that, in this case, it had saved his and his companions’ lives. Though most of them had lain down for the night, they had instantly sprung to their feet and managed to fight off the surprise attack, killing many of the monsters before forcing them into retreat. Even so, Mahariel had never expected that the worst surprise was saved for last, in the form of a dark-skinned, human-like monstrosity.

“You… lethallin…”

Mahariel froze, eyes widening tenfold. “Mercy of the Gods! It can’t be!” he exclaimed, aghast. 

“Don’t come near me! Stay away!”

Then the ghoul was gone, running off into the darkness of the night, and Mahariel ran after him as fast as his feet could carry him, the camp, his companions, the darkspawn, everything forgotten at that moment. He had failed his best friend once; if he failed him again, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself a second time.

The hideous form crouched against a rock, averting his gaze and making Mahariel’s heart wrench violently. This… creature… had once been his best friend, his comrade. They had spent their childhood playing, exploring and making dreams about becoming great warriors and defeat the bad humans who had made their clan suffer. And now…

“Tamlen…”

“Don’t… look at me!” the ghoul rasped painfully, eyes devoid of their familiar blue colour. “I’m… sick…”

“I know,” Mahariel murmured. He took another step forward, holding up both his hands in an appeasing manner. “But maybe I can help you, Tamlen. Don’t be afraid.”

“No help!” Tamlen snarled, baring his teeth... his fangs. “No… help for me.” His hands clenched into fists, talon-like nails digging into his palms and drawing blood. “It… calls to me. He sings to me! I can’t stop it!”

Mahariel knelt in front of him even as Tamlen cried out in pain, dropping his bow in the process. “It’s all right…”

The ghoul lowered his yellow gaze. “Don’t want… to hurt you, lethallin,” he whispered. “Please… stop me…”

“I have to try and heal you.” He had found his cure amid the Grey Wardens, there had to be a way to help Tamlen, too, surely!

“Too far. You cannot help me,” Tamlen said softly and looked up at him, his eyes reflecting his sorrow and regret. “I’m… so sorry, lethallin. Never wanted this…”

“Tamlen…”

The words died in Mahariel’s lips as sharp claws suddenly grabbed him by the throat, squeezing the life out of him without mercy. The fangs were bared once more, and whatever had been left of Tamlen’s soul vanished behind feral eyes filled with hatred.

“Now die.”

\-------------------------

“How unnerving!” Leliana said, looking at the corpses of the shrieks. 

Zevran, on the other hand, didn’t seem all that unnerved as he clicked his tongue in disapproval. “No trap? No ambush? Some assassins.”

“Fortifications must be built around the camp. This should never have happened,” Sten declared, crossing his arms.

But Alistair barely listened, for he had noticed something that was more than a little alarming. Doing his best not to go into full panic mode, he walked up to Wynne, who was busy casting protective magic around the camp.

“Wynne? Have you seen Mahariel?”

The woman frowned in thought at the odd question. “No, I can’t say I have. I thought he was with you.”

“He was, but then I lost track of him.” He looked around, trying to get a glimpse of the dalish. Where could he possibly be?

“Are you looking for your fellow Grey Warden?”

Alistair turned around, surprised to see Bodahn standing there. In all honesty, Alistair had expected the merchant to flee after the shrieks’ attack. It was true that both he and his son always tailed the party, often doing business with Mahariel for supplies and such. That, however, hardly made either dwarf a warrior, and tonight’s particular experience had been horrifying, to say the least; Alistair wouldn’t have hold it against them if they had gone.

“I am. Have you seen him?”

“The last I saw him, he was chasing after one of those monsters down that way,” Bodahn said, pointing in the particular direction. “Be careful, though. I’m not sure what you’ll find.”

Alistair ignored the grim warning and unsheathed his sword. “Wynne, look after the others. I’ll be right back.” 

He didn’t even stay to hear the woman’s reply. He simply hurried down the direction Bodahn had shown him, trying to find any sign of the missing elf. 

“Mahariel!”

There was no answer; just the leaves rustling gently in the spring night breeze.

“Mahariel!”

Again there was nothing. Truly worried now, Alistair continued down the path, his sword still in hand. If Mahariel was in trouble, he’d need all the help he could get. Provided nothing worse had happened to him…

Alistair shook his head at once, refusing to think like that. He would find Mahariel - he had to.

“Mahariel! Come on, answer me!”

There was no reply, nor was it necessary anymore. In that moment, Alistair caught sight of a kneeling form in the shadows. Mahariel. It had to be. 

“Thank the Maker,” the royal-blooded man said with a sigh of relief, walking up to him. “Are you…?”

He had meant to ask, ‘Are you injured?’, but he never finished his sentence. Even under the meager light of the stars, he noticed that Mahariel had his head bowed, seeming to cradle something… or someone. Whatever the dalish was holding was humanoid in shape. Grotesquely so, but humanoid nonetheless… and quite dead. Alistair supposed his friend had managed to kill it by slashing its throat. The small knife that had been used for the deed was on the ground, covered in the black ooze that had been the creature’s blood. What made things more disturbing, however, were the bruises that he could see forming around Mahariel’s neck, undeniable signs that the dalish had escaped strangulation by the skin of his teeth. And yet there he was, hugging the body as if… as if that creature had actually meant something to him.

“Who… was that?” Alistair asked the elf softly.

“His name was Tamlen,” the dalish replied, his voice pained and hoarse.

“Tamlen…?” Wait, Alistair was sure he had heard that name before, but from where? As he gazed at the ghoul’s leather armour, though, he saw the characteristic dalish patterns on it, and everything fell into place. “I see… He was the one who was with you when you…”

Mahariel nodded, strands of black hair hiding his eyes as he still kept his head bowed. 

“I’m so sorry,” Alistair said sincerely, feeling for his fellow Grey Warden. “That is what happens when the taint is left unchecked.”

“I wanted to help him,” Mahariel whispered, the sound of a sob interlacing the words.

“You did help him,” Alistair said at once, kneeling next to Mahariel so he could place an arm across the elf’s shoulders in comfort. “It’s… It’s better for him to have it end. It was a mercy.”

Mahariel shook under the man’s touch, grief coursing through his body. “Duncan knew, didn’t he?”

Alistair sighed, rubbing Mahariel’s back to ease the tremours away. “I think so. He certainly knew that that would happen to you. That was why he helped you join the Grey Wardens.”

“Then why didn’t he tell me after I became one?” the dalish snapped, finally looking up. His eyes swam in tears, and yet justified anger flashed through them as he glared at the human. “I could have looked for him! I could have saved him! I could have done something!”

“Hey, hey, hey! Easy!” Alistair’s arms wrapped around Mahariel, but the elf struggled to get away, hands clenching into fists and hitting anything they could. The man winced as two pretty powerful punches landed on his side; nevertheless he took the beating without a sound escaping his lips. He knew how much it hurt. He had been there after Duncan’s death, and Mahariel had stood by him even though he didn’t have to; they barely knew each other back then, almost six months ago. Now, it was time for Alistair to stand by the young elf.

A final fist landed weakly on Alistair’s chest, and Mahariel grew still, the struggle ceasing altogether. Even so, Alistair didn’t let him go, offering his comfort. 

“He had probably meant to tell you once the battle at Ostagar was over,” he said quietly. “But I suppose the darkspawn made sure he never had the chance.”

He felt Mahariel nodding against his chest and then gently pushing himself away from Alistair’s embrace. The man winced as the lines of anguish aged the young elf more than his actual years and he couldn’t help but squeeze the dalish’s shoulder in reassurance. He was there and it was alright. 

The message got through, and Mahariel looked up trustingly at Alistair once more. “Before he died, Tamlen said that the archdemon sang to him,” he said softly. “Do you think the archdemon knew about my connection to him?”

Alistair pursed his lips momentarily. The thought had crossed his mind as well, but he hadn’t been sure whether he should have voiced it at a time like this. Still, he knew he couldn’t lie to his friend, so he nodded.

“Remember, being a Grey Warden means that we can sense the archdemon’s thoughts, but he can also sense ours. He must have ‘read’ your past in your mind and so decided to use it to his advantage.”

Mahariel nodded his understanding once more. “Sounds like we should deal with him and fast.”

“We’re already working on that,” Alistair said, smiling a bit. “He’ll never know what hit him.”

“For the Grey Wardens,” Mahariel said, managing a weak smile at last.

“And Ferelden and everyone we know and love,” Alistair completed, and he got back on his feet. “Well, now that that’s settled, it’s time we headed back.”

“Actually, I’d rather I stayed a little while longer,” Mahariel said softly.

“Of course,” Alistair said, nodding his understanding. “I’ll tell the others that you’re just scouting the area.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” the elf said before looking back at Alistair with a guilty look. “And sorry about the bruises.”

“Bruises? What bruises? I didn’t feel a thing,” Alistair replied with a grin, waving his hand dismissively. As he turned on his heel, however, he winced in a comical manner. “Well… All right… maybe I felt that first punch. Maker, you have a mean right hand! Who said elves were lightweights? Because I certainly didn’t!”

It had the desired effect. Mahariel chuckled softly, the sorrow ebbing significantly as he watched Alistair go. The royal-blooded man smiled to himself and, considering his work done, he walked back to the camp to make arrangements for the night. He had to make sure no one would notice his fellow Warden’s return to the camp. He knew the elf would rather avoid questioning after he had properly mourned and said goodbyes to Tamlen – and his old life.

To Be Continued...


	2. A Final Goodbye

In all his life as an assassin, Zevran had the habit of studying people. It gave him the opportunity to learn some things about them that he wouldn’t have been able to know otherwise, and perhaps exploit it afterwards in order to get what he wanted. He had done that while he was in Antiva, and he had done it when he had picked a certain Grey Warden as a target. After hearing rumours of a young elf who led a small band of people dedicated in assisting those in need, acting in the name of the Grey Wardens, he had also figured out just how to lure them in his trap. One distress call and then it would have been plain sailing from there.

Or so he had thought. Rumours had never warned Zevran that his target fought with the swiftness of a hawk and the ferocity of a bear. He certainly hadn’t picked up the rumour that the Grey Warden was also a very handsome man, but that was humans for you; always omitting the most important details. That powerful body and determined look in his eyes, their green accentuated by his ebony-black hair was simply to die for…

But he strayed. Yes, the Grey Warden was handsome, royally tough to kill and magnanimous enough to spare his would-be assassin, but… some habits simply died hard. Zevran still found himself studying people. Namely, the people he now considered companions in a wish he understood their character and what drove them to follow this young elf in a campaign against the darkspawn. And, in time, Zevran had managed to reach his conclusions about each and every one of them. Leliana wanted to redeem herself; Morrigan wanted something not quite so innocent and just needed the opportune moment to get it. Wynne took it upon herself to be the Warden’s mentor in an attempt to make something with her life, and Sten wanted to see the military prowess of Ferelden for the Arishok. There was also Beorn, but, since he was a dog and a very loyal one to his master at that, he didn’t count in order for Zevran to make his case. Everyone wanted to gain something else besides fighting against the Blight, himself included. Everyone, that is, except for Alistair. He was of the stuff that the noble knights of fairy tales are made of: heroic, virtuous, ready to fight off villainy with his proverbial sword of justice… 

… and a terrible liar. Indeed, when the royal-blooded man came back to the camp and declared that Mahariel had gone scouting ahead, Zevran didn’t believe it for a second. Voicing his suspicions in front of everyone else wouldn’t have help matters, however, so he decided to do what everybody else would: keep silent and wait for Mahariel to return so as to speak to him in private. Yes, Alistair had given the order that they should all have some rest while the night was still young. Then again, Alistair was hardly their group leader, was he? So, Zevran was hardly surprised when he didn’t hear the familiar gentle snoring or calm, relaxed breathing of his companions sleeping when they retired. They were on their guard, expecting to hear the dalish’s footsteps.

Zevran chuckled softly to himself. Unlike the others, he didn’t intend to lose any beauty sleep while waiting. There was no telling when Mahariel would come back, after all, and, by then, exhaustion would have probably done its work. No. He was a light sleeper, and he knew that all he had to do was hear the right kind of sound that would have him awake in seconds, ready to have his talk with the Grey Warden. All he had to do was close his eyes and let a particular someone to do the hard work for him.

 

Zevran wasn’t quite sure how long he had managed to sleep, nor was it important. What was important was that he had picked up Beorn’s gentle whine, the usual sign that he had spotted his master – the sound the Antivan had been waiting for - so it was time to see what the Grey Warden had been up to. Barely making a sound, he propped himself on his elbow and pulled one of the flaps of his tent aside to peek outside.

Sure enough, there was the hound, wagging his tail, and then Zevran’s keen eyes caught sight of the very elf he had been looking for. But the assassin also noticed something that he didn’t like at all. The Grey Warden was a far cry from the brave, proud warrior the Antivan had grown accustomed to and felt attracted to. His features carried a melancholic, lonely expression, and his body posture seemed to scream ache and fatigue. Beorn must have picked up the change in his master’s aura as well, because he didn’t jump around him happily as Zevran had expected. He simply sat on his hind legs, a mix of puzzlement and concern visible in his intelligent eyes. Mahariel watched him for several moments and then slowly, almost hesitantly, knelt in front of the dog and wrapped his arms around the thick neck.

Zevran had wanted to believe that he had seen so many things in his life that there was nothing left to discomfit him. Yet now, watching the Grey Warden, the pillar of this band and Ferelden’s hope against the Blight, so broken and so defeated, was a sight that he had never been prepared to see. What could have done that to his fellow elf? Or was Mahariel always like that whenever he felt no one was watching? Zevran hoped that that wasn’t the case…

“I have to go for a while, boy,” the young elf said softly in the moment, cutting into Zevran’s train of thought.

Beorn whined, cocking his head.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back before dawn. I just have to do something,” Mahariel replied.

Beorn made a motion to stand up, but the elf instantly shook his head.

“No, you can’t come,” he said quietly. “You have to look after the others for me.”

Beorn whined again, his eyes saddened.

“I’ll be alright,” Mahariel said once more in reassurance and he gently rubbed Beorn behind his ears. “You’ll be a good boy, won’t you?” 

Beorn panted softly and licked the elf’s face, making Mahariel smile.

“Thank you.” With that, he patted his hound gently on the head, and then turned on his heel, heading towards the dark veil of the night.

Zevran supposed that that was his time to act, so he quickly got onto his feet, pushing the flaps aside.

“Ah! There you are!” he said, feigning surprise.

Mahariel stopped on his tracks, but he didn’t look back at Zevran. He probably didn’t want to reveal his wincing expression. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t. Nature doesn’t call only the dalish, you know,” Zevran lied smoothly, keeping his tone in his usual lilt of joviality. “How about we see who aims the farthest, hm?”

“I’m not…” Mahariel stopped, probably aware that he was about to make a slip of the tongue. “It’s fine; I’ll give you some privacy.”

“Mm, that’s quite generous of you,” Zevran noted. “Just how far will you go to give me my privacy, I wonder.”

The teasing tone must have ebbed quite audibly, for Mahariel tensed and stared back at Zevran for many long moments. Zevran, on the other hand, looked back at him quite seriously, telling the Grey Warden in his own way that any further secrecy was futile.

Finally, the dalish heaved a sigh, lowering his gaze. “It has nothing to do with you or the others. It’s just something I have to do.”

“And I would have respected that, my Grey Warden, but for one thing. It’s obvious you’re going back to Haven, a place where we’re no longer welcome,” Zevran pointed out, crossing his arms. “So, if it’s a stealth mission you want to accomplish, you might want me to tag along.”

“I’m not going to kill anyone,” Mahariel said.

“I never claimed you were,” Zevran said. “If you still want something done without losing your head, though, you should probably see the real experts at work. So, what is it you want stolen? Coins? Weapons? Perhaps some gemstones?”

Mahariel shook his head. “Just go back to sleep, Zevran,” he said, walking away.

Zevran, however, wouldn’t have it. “Now here’s a funny story, tell me if you’ve heard it,” he said, catching up with him and walking beside him. “There is this Grey Warden who always seems willing to help witches to do away with their powerful shape-shifting mothers, mages to track down apprentices long thought to be dead, royalties to find their sisters, bards to escape their past and Qunaris to find their missing blades; and he does all that because he managed to earn their trust and so they decided to confide in him. And yet, when it came the Grey Warden’s turn to talk about his problems, he chose to remain silent. What say you to that?”

Mahariel paused, sighing. “So if I tell you that I need a shovel in order to bury a ghoul who used to be my best friend, what will change?”

Ah, so that was the problem. Zevran had heard of Tamlen before; his fellow elf had spoken of him before. In fact, he had wondered if there could have been something between them, a thought that crossed Zevran’s mind more times than it should have, probably. 

“Probably nothing. I’ll still come and help you,” he answered. “Especially since you’re wearing that ridiculous ancient elven outfit which wakes up the dead every time you walk, my silly Grey Warden,” he added with a soft chuckle.

Mahariel sighed wryly. “Point taken.”

“Relax, my Grey Warden, I’m only teasing,” Zevran said, clapping the other elf on the shoulder. “Let’s go. And, who knows, we might actually find some treasure along the way. If we do, half of it is yours.”

“No, you’re welcome to it. Even though I think we got everything the first time around.”

“Ah… Shame,” Zevran replied in a mock-crestfallen tone. “Now come, I still have my old Antivan armour; you can use it for our little expedition.”

“Right,” Mahariel said softly, and he followed Zevran back to his tent. As soon as he was in the Antivan’s old attire, the two elves slipped out of camp quietly, moving swiftly towards the isolated village. There was no moon up in the night sky and they had to tread carefully, mindful of their step; but at least they stayed out of the guards’ sight. It didn’t take them long to reach the outskirts of Haven, eyes darting in every direction so they wouldn’t come across any unpleasant surprises.

“So… See any shovels anywhere? Because I don’t,” Zevran said.

“While I was exploring, I came across a general store. We should find everything we need there.”

“And that store is…?”

“Over there,” Mahariel said, pointing straight ahead. “We’ll have to pick the lock, though.”

“Good thing I’m here, then,” Zevran said with a grin, and he walked out of their hiding place.

“Zevran…!”

Zevran smiled to himself and continued moving, his motions light and smooth, barely disrupting the quiet of the night. This was _his_ element now. He looked around once more and then boldly stepped towards the threshold. The lock wasn’t too complicated, and so Zevran managed to pick it in just a matter of moments. The door creaked open gently, and he motioned Mahariel to come and join him.

“You could have been spotted,” the dalish pointed out as he sneaked his way up to Zevran.

“But I haven’t. I told you before, I’m a very lucky man, my Grey Warden,” Zevran replied with a grin and closed the door behind them; there was no need to arouse any suspicion by leaving it open. “Now… one shovel coming right up.”

 

Zevran had to admit that fate had shown her kind face tonight. They hadn’t found just one shovel, but two, and, though the Antivan couldn’t care less about hard labour, he decided that in this case he could make an exception. So, when the Grey Warden went to see to his grim task of a gravedigger, Zevran followed obediently, carrying the shovel. It was still dark by the time that walked away, and the trees looked the same to the elven assassin. Not to the Grey Warden, though. His dalish background gave him an infallible sense of direction, making him find his way even in the thickest forest. So, Zevran trusted him to guide them swiftly and surely to the place where Tamlen had been left, awaiting his burial.

Zevran’s first reaction upon seeing the body was to wince, the deformed figure revolting him to no end. He barely even looked at it as he started digging, and he found himself telling Mahariel about another one of his adventures as an assassin in the hopes of putting their minds off the current situation. Mahariel listened and commented in all the right places, a sign that he was indeed listening, but Zevran still noticed the discreet motion of a hand wiping an occasional tear off his eyes. In those moments, a sense of protectiveness surged through Zevran and he just wanted to say something, anything, that would make the Grey Warden smile. Except he didn’t know what.

“I think that’s deep enough,” Mahariel said softly, snapping the Antivan out of his musings.

Zevran regarded the hole and he deemed that Mahariel had a point. “You want me to help you with the body?”

“No, I can do it.” With that, Mahariel knelt beside Tamlen, scooping his hands underneath him in order to lift him.

Zevran placed a hand on the Grey Warden’s shoulder before he even realized what he was doing.

“I am here. I might as well help, no?” And though the sight of the ghoul made him feel ill at ease, he gripped him by the legs, intending to share the load with the Grey Warden.

Mahariel was visibly surprised at that, but he didn’t deny the offer a second time. He finally grabbed Tamlen by the arms and thus both elves placed him inside his grave. Neither of them spoke or exchanged so much as a glance as they threw the earth back into the hole, covering the body. It was after their task was over, while Mahariel was kneeling by the grave with a hand resting on the small mound of earth, that Zevran decided it was time to leave his fellow elf be. But, just as he turned on his heel, Mahariel's voice broke the silence.

“Zevran?”

“Yes?” Zevran asked, frowning. He wasn’t sure what the Grey Warden wanted to say.

Mahariel looked over his shoulder, a bittersweet smile on his lips.

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“It was the least I could do.” Surprisingly, Zevran meant it. The Grey Warden had done so much for all of them, without asking anything in return. It was only fair that someone did something for the Grey Warden for a change. That’s how Zevran reasoned matters in his mind, ignoring the set of feelings that tried to make their presence known in his heart and tell him that what he felt about the dalish went deeper than admiration or awe. “Shall we head back now? It’s almost dawn.”

Mahariel looked up in the sky, finally noticing the faint grey colour of pre-dawn that started merging with the dark blue of the night. 

“Yes, I suppose we should,” he said, quietly getting back on his feet. He cast one last glance at the grave in a final goodbye, and then he caught up with Zevran, following him to the camp. Even so, there was obviously something else in his mind too, for when they reached the camp and were ready to part ways, he gripped Zevran gently by the arm, stopping him.

“Yes?” Zevran asked, blinking.

His mild surprise only became even bigger when Mahariel dug out of his pack a pair of leather boots. And it wasn’t just any kind of leather. It was…

“Antivan leather!” he exclaimed softly. “But how…?”

“They were in the store,” Mahariel said, smiling a bit. “Go on. Wear them.”

“I… Thank you,” Zevran said, taking the boots in his hands almost reverently. He had always wanted a pair so badly and now… he actually had one. He gazed upon them, fingers feeling the supple material and he couldn’t help but grin broadly.

“You know, if you could find us some wine and a pair of lovely whores, I would feel just like home…” His voice trailed off when he realized upon looking up that Mahariel wasn’t there, however. The Grey Warden had slipped away quietly, without so much as expecting any thanks from the assassin. 

Zevran remained looking in the direction he guessed Mahariel had gone, torn between going after him and retiring to his tent. In the end, the latter option prevailed, and Zevran spent the last hour before daybreak wondering what could this gift possibly mean.

His question was answered a couple of weeks later, when Mahariel walked up to him with a very shy look in his eyes and an endearing blush, and asked one simple thing.

“Would you like to join me in my tent?”

Zevran nodded with a smile, not intending to pass up that kind of offer.

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the actual encounter I had during the game.


End file.
